Part 1: The Gift

Everyday had become the same, gray canvas and painted in it,
The inspiration of lifeless eyes in a dead portrait;
In this endless pile of everydays, somewhere I felt the chains fall apart,
Her shadow touched upon the gray, still expressions start to become art.

Long I hadn't turned the way,
The little path gleams, tucked away from familiar sounds and passing cars;
Lost in clever grasses, where a fragrance rests and sunlight falls,
In soft gold streaks, between the trees;
There's magic there,
It lays its silver dust upon the ordinary of passing days.

I was an old Peter Pan,
I'd moved on into the crowd;
But then, from within her deep brown eyes,
I felt a little magic pierce inside;
And before I knew, I watched my concrete world,
Laden with a thin snowfall of silver dust.

There was late an evening at her home,
An open window let in the sky, and between us,
My feelings, unstated, wrapped the quiet like a silken stole;
We listened together, Loreena Mckennit's high-pitched voice sang the dead lover's tune -

"Her eyes grew wide for a moment,
She drew one last deep breath;
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight...
Shattered her breast in the moonlight
And warned him - with her death."

I had felt the song a plenty times,
But I watched it now stream upon her, huddled in a yellow wool jacket,
And drip into her soul, behind closed eyes.

There, as the night raced by, the plan fell upon me like a flash;
It was ten nights to her birthday, February the 7th,
Ten nights I would make her a gift.

Office mornings passed like a dream,
Her hair a cascade, the touch of those eyes -
The excitement of that dark bottle perfume on a moonlit date;
And a bright bulb glowed late hours,
I painted in silence her favorite lines;
One page a night,
Visioning in color, Alfred Noyes' that timeless tale.

The green sketchbook had waited these empty years,
Waited in dust for a spark in dead wires and a deep brown smile;
10 pages of dark and red, and the 11th would be mine,
A rainbow across a clear blue sky,
And below it, my heart poured in two white lines -

"Here's something beautiful to think of. We have a lifetime ahead of us to be by each other's side and chase dreams together."

Part 2: February 6

I woke up early to a broken spell,
The winter sky had faded, my window let in the clear warmth of spring;
10 pages done - today I carried a rainbow heart;
Nerves jangled, and a tear drop rolled,
Alone a witness to a numb vessel's flickering hope.

Like every morning I waited,
Our corner of the cafeteria was bathed in sunshine glow;
Here we shared that one cup of tea, and spilled random conversations,
That I mostly lost in her eyes;
I watched her walk towards me,
Yellow kurta, and the bright morning's charm, caught in a smile.

And then came the blow.

Her words that morning - how could I lose?
Her words that morning fell like ice on the rainbow,
And spread upon the freeze like the veins of a crack.

'I like him,' she said, 'the boy who sits across the room,
I like him, and I haven't told anyone yet,
I thought I'd first trust you.'

I don't know how I held that cup of tea and my eyes stood still,
For I lay before her, shattered on the floor.

A lifetime of repression was rehearsal,
Now was the stage and I played my part;
The trauma of her words seeped into my blood,
It imploded like a black hole inside - no form, no sound, no violence,
Just distilled, irrepressible force;
The pressure screamed, but all outlets held,
A tear touched my eyes, and in two blinks I swallowed it back.

Did she notice? She was endearing, absorbed in the boy,
Who asked her out on her new year night,
To bring in this springing rivulet of joy.

Alone that night, empty the 11th page stared up at me,
I could not think of the rainbow, as I wondered first how does a dead man breathe;
As the dark grew deep, my heart turned into a noose with nails inside,
If I could only paint that instead,
With happiness hung upon it, dripping blood down its still legs.

No!
Somehow, could I finish this rainbow - her rainbow,
If only somehow my hands didn't shake,
And this cry would stop so that I may concentrate;
I looked at my phone, the dreaded clock never stops,
It was 12, and it read, as it were, the 7th of February.

Part 3: The Birthday

She opened the door, bright eyes of delight;
'Happy birthday', and the present I handed her, wrapped in deep yellow gift paper;
'Don't open it now', I whispered, 'you'll never guess'.

I did not stay long, I feigned a sickness,
But as I walked back,
I imagined how she would open the yellow paper, and find that green sketchbook inside.

I knew how her eyes would turn upon the painted lines,
This was not a gift of paintings, she would know -
These were 10 pages of my soul;
And upon the 11th page she would find,
The seven colors of light upon a clear blue morning,
And below it, words painted in white -
"A life I wish you, as bright as the rainbow sky."

Her eyes glinted. They were dark fire. Her hair, like swirls of night, flowed down her arm. The hint of a smile was the breaking dawn.  

My body shook, breathing ragged. I clenched my fists, fighting desperately against madness. She played. I resisted. My lips pursed.

Three years ago I had lost. That voice, once loud and sharp, had played gentle chords. The memory was a persistent echo. It pierced. The dam was about to burst. Again.

She had become a spell, that time, enveloped me like a mist, lifted me into a fantasy, and let me drop. I crashed like glass on floor.

Not again; but I couldn't. She was magnetic. She was transcendence. My heart surged, like a moth to a flame.

Enough! In two steps, I obliterated the space between us and tore the canvas into half. Then another, and another...

Pieces of paper lay strewn upon the floor. Suddenly I was alone. I gasped. My eyes closed. The pain cut in like a knife.

The setting light splits into pieces,
Between slanting silhouettes, caught upon a little pool of sky;
You absorb in silence, aware,
This margin of worlds is a fleeting fantasy,
Like those ten minutes between windscreens,
When moving streetlights fall upon her in streaks.

Walking with her, alone, an hour of the night,
Into deep corners of thoughts,
Time is not a dipping sunset, and yet it won't bend,
To this desire of holding it in a straight line,
And walking with her, alone, till the break of morning;
The hour passes, and that is all,
You are blessed, you know,
Even if this was the end;
You smile, and you walk on.

The day turns, a little distance has a way,
Tonight holds in its palms as a fragrance, yesterday;
Her touch breaks upon your body in the ocean breeze,
And her voice, locked in moonlit waves, pours into intimate spaces;
You lay down against the night and silent laugh,
Filling hope into the sea;
This is where you would stop, if you could,
The passing train that carries everything away.

Had it, then, really come to be,
You would remember the secret,
That something, unnamed, between you,
That blooms in mortal time,
And will forever remain god's envy.

For a while she'd had her eyes on you;
Behind the shadow of her dark cloak,
In a corner she waited unobtrusively;
She'd followed the signs,
And the pieces were all coming together,
As if inevitably.

Your guardians were now deserters;
Mighty, the circle of exchanged promises that had once stood,
Bold and fearless, impenetrable as a fortress,
Now lay crumbled, rubble beyond ruin,
Leaving that path a ghost of the past,
Arches without doors,
Cold paved verandahs overrun by mist and piles of stone,
Where there'd been bright lit walls that resonated voices and held in warmth;
There, amidst the thick white wisps, the cloaked lady lurked,
Watching your empty footsteps walk.

Where went the angel who smiled upon you in the heart of a storm?
Who spoke a promise into your eyes,
And put her arm around your hurting soul?
If I trip in the treacherous night, you asked,
And as before, deep in a gorge I find myself fall,
Listen for my song, and trust, said she,
Reach, and my hand will be there, locked upon yours.

So arrived a night, darker than any before,
A narrow tunnel sprung up around you and the floor gave way;
Deep into this shaft as you fell,
There was no song, and no one came,
And you did not see,
Way above by the corner of the well,
Behind her dark cloak's hood,
The shadow lady watched in silence,
As you buckled alone under the black night's spell.

Silent tears seep into your palms,
You subdue the sniffles, lest a neighbor heard;
Defeated, then, you lie huddled on your bed,
Quietly you withered like a winter plant;
Somewhere, once, there was a voice from within -
"There are those who care, there are those who love!"
You muster a little smile,
There are those you let down,
To them you pray sorry,
There are children who expect you to be strong,
You wish them strength,
And then everyone else - who would not understand,
Where you lie is an island,
You wish it were different,
It might have been;
The promise of what could be,
Like a treasure you carry.

She looks upon you, by the side of your bed,
And you look back,
She leans over and wraps you in her cloak,
No wait!
Your eyes dart behind - empty, weary room,
And your phone as still as if it were dead;
You lay in the dark,
And she carries you away.

We had our favorite table by the window,
Wisps of steam rose from my coffee cup;
The discomfort I felt was in the words,
They hung between us and pressed against my shoulders;
She was my best friend,
And this winter afternoon, she'd come to pour sunshine on my fate;
'How long,' she asked, 'will you scribble words on empty evenings?
How long must I watch your dear heart,
Wither in the cold sky like a dry December tree?'

She had friends to set me up on dates,
She'd rather, I scribble random conversations on empty faces,
Because that's all it would be;
On a chill foggy night,
Whoever got warmth from the pale fade of streetlight?
When there was that girl from the dark,
She stormed the late hour's haze like the crackle of bonfire,
And my heart swung (in secret),
To the dance of flames.

Thoughtfully, I stared into deep brown eyes,
The sun streamed in, and dropped crystal pools of highlight;
Dark deeds best stay concealed, the hour spoke wise,
This was my sweet best friend, and I smiled,
She would not approve of my transgressions of night;
But,
If I could just let wisdom rest where wisdom be,
I would tell her of the girl who spoke freedom,
While her hair floated in the breeze.

I thought and I measured,
She pressed and she probed,
Till she called the ****** of this game,
With a rhetorical question -
'I wonder, who will your queen of hearts be?'

The sun wandered into a cloud,
Her crystal eyes playfully turned plain brown;
In this magic minute, I spilled last night's secret in a word -
'You'.

Imagine,
You stand by the ocean,
Boulders spread, rollercoaster waves roll in,
Leaping flight, reckless, hurls itself upon stone;
You hear all sound -
The breeze, the gulls, the people,
But the loudest of all,
The crash of the mighty sea,
Is silent.
Can you project the landscape, and mute its heart?
Or is that strange act a demand too violent?

You plunge deep into tropical wilderness,
Lost like an ant in a green blanket;
A leafy breeze streams in through the bark of lofty guardians,
And the pure forest air - has no fragrance.
Can you imagine nature's heart, and steal its breath?

That time you trekked the stairway to heaven on a clear night,
And you look up for god's firecracker split into a million droplets of light,
Only to find a starless empty black.

There are limits to the senseless,
Why then do I know the feeling of building conversation,
With words we both picked from secret corners,
Feelings shared in measure to each other's freedom,
And then one day your voice falls dead.
No reasons given - not even for empathy's sake,
Just a photo frame's silence to a double blue tick.

Discrete I stare, her eyes are lost in a book,
Upon the curve of her shoulder blade falls gently a thin curtain of night,
And then I escape - it's hard to bear alone what swells in that secret place inside.

Along average conversations, our eyes meet, and again, I let mine rest a fraction long,
That fraction where I see reflections in her deep brown,
And feel alive magic;
They are little windows, these stolen extras, and I enter softly into her soul.

Occasionally, she feels the intruder -
'What happened?' Smiles, and we dismiss it together as passing breeze;
She is innocent to disguise (I am safe),
Her every feeling crackles like a fire inside,
And upon her, I can tell it by its glow.

Memory is rooms, and on a white wall in the one I stay,
A collage of her expressions rests as a painful masterpiece;
And in there, one is only her hands,
Slender, her steady hands, deep nailpaint fading at the edges, and a plain silver ring.

Cold was that smoky night, walking a yellow lit road,
Her voice quivered, she broke upon me stains of blood,
Rapt, I heard - lashed by an endless winter storm, she's the leaf that did not fall.

Dust swirls in the city sky, everything fades ***** brown,
But, in the break of her smile shines a catch of light;
When did dust ever settle on light?

Would he remember, when dark shadows creep, where lies the light,
And every little thing that would bring it to her eyes?
Would he stay till the twilight of days,
Or will she one day walk alone on a summer evening like today...

I will still be there - the shade that she searches, or a cool draft of breeze.

Who would he be?
I wish he's the someone who remembers where lies the light.

I walked into a cafe on a sunny afternoon,
I had a white pen in my pocket, and on the gift counter I found,
A red sheet of paper, yellow hearts painted on the corners,
I decided I'd write a poem, and I sat there two hours;
I had a secret the color of midnight dark,
I spilled it in white ink and the words turned gray;
Then I stretched and I smiled,
And looked at my mischief glow in the evening light;
The red and yellow beamed, and between them,
My poem, now free, danced in delight.

When I got home that night, once again I pulled out the sheet,
The glare of my room was bright,
And here it dawned that this was a scandal in white!
The words stood tall, bold and proud, hoisting my secret to everyone's sight;
Even the yellow hearts felt shy, and they melted into the red,
Now it was a paper of new color with words that should not have been said;
But then, I was distracted by the night breeze that crept in,
It tickled a wicked smile from somewhere within,
Upon my poem, I gazed sideways,
Truth be told, it never looked better,
So be it - if this was a sin.

I shut the window against the breeze,
And then I allowed good sense to prevail;
I lit a candle on my table, and held the poem in a roll,
The flame spilled into it and my secret waltzed bright orange;
I nodded in silence, for truth be told,
The poem never looked better than this flaming, liquid gold.

I dusted the char, before I shut the lights;
As I fell behind sleep's heavy curtain that night,
I dreamt my own room and opened the wooden closet,
And there it was - as if it always belonged,
Red paper, yellow hearts, and the gray words of that poem I wrote;
A thrill rose in my eyes and crashed back in little needles;
I didn't quite remember, when I woke up next morning,
If I picked up that burning candle and set fire in my dream.

Finally I dusted that lazy pile of too many yesterdays,
Somewhere between forgotten birthday cards, lists, and old bills,
I found the treasure of a tan brown memory, lost to decay;
It was a gift many winters ago,
Meant to begin an adventure,
Those were the days of metamorphosis - feelings became stories,
And they dripped from the tip of my pen;
I flipped the pages -
The diary was empty.

The corner of my eye fell upon my weapon,
My hand shook a bit - there was something a little different about today;
I held its edge upon the first page,
Somewhere inside, rusted corners groaned;
And then the silence burst,
Attempted ******, imploring, the ring of my phone,
Not this time - defeated, it faded,
Till it grew tired and shut up;
I felt my cheeks stretch into the greedy smile of those days,
When routine was a slave,
And unchained, my imagination reigned.

Much had passed - the equation had reversed,
And I had died a little, every flip of gone calendars,
But today, again I was alive,
And for metamorphosis, I held someone inside;
Her brown eyes eluded playfully,
Behind the child was a deep soul's abode,
The poise of royalty, in voice the simple girl she was;
I lifted my nib from the page,
And in that timeless stillness, something formed.

Till the doorbell rang;
Startled, I realized it was the middle of the week,
But the chains had fallen;
How far I had traveled in a morning,
The world of rude reminders was no longer mine,
Nor the world of cliches, overstated phrases, and bad poetry;
I had a fine needle in my hand, and I wove upon the sheet,
This was not a romance, or dark or sad,
It shied from big statements - it was delicate embroidery.

The phone rang, and the doorbell rang - distant noise,
And in the empty spaces between phrases,
My mind wandered back to her eyes;
There was a wall,
And much as I had tried,
I had never found a door to the other side;
I wondered what she would make of scribbled pages,
Would she unravel riddles, and strip my soul naked?
Of course I wouldn't know -
I am alone in this room and walls don't speak.

Incessant, impotent ringing - the dull day is now left behind.

--

'Suicide', the man in the uniform reported,
'Any note?'
'No inspector, on the table I found an old brown diary,
The first page just says -
"I hope you fill this with adventure :-)" '
'And the rest?'
'The rest is empty - looks like an old gift';
'A woman's handwriting, I see',
'Yes sir',
'Okay then,' barked the inspector,
'Case closed.'

Where you walk, there is no darkness this night;
The streets and the sky bathe in a dazzle of light.
A blur of yellow speed races in streaks across the eyes;
It's an ocean of neon, but really, it's just a trick of sight.
The real lies where this din fades, and you hear the rhythmic click of alone footsteps;
It's dark inside, you know it's more than the city lights hide.

It was there, stark, veiled, steadfast, in the hours of the day that went by;
Did anyone notice it's shadow behind your eyes?
It hung still, as conversations gurgled and passed, and the players of daytime came and played their part.
There were sparks occasionally, the fleeting radiance of exchanged smiles;
But nothing questioned the dark shadow of the still darker reaches inside.

You laughed, you played along, you synchronized your beat with the hustle around;
And then, as the day fades into bright night, the stage shuts and the actors go home;
You too cast your mask aside.
There is no one to look into your eyes;
To see how deep goes the dark tunnel inside.

How long will you play before that day;
When the tunnel fills and the dark spills out;
And in the morning, there is no mask for the relief of daylight.
There is no morning - only that dark, now out as much as inside.

Blood drops drip from both hands of the clock,
I notice, it's not been moving;
The thin blade edge gleams,
Ready to rip red slashes on a sheet;
Someone will stir for love,
And then bleed slow death tonight.

It could have been sunshine,
A path tumbling along green mountainside,
Or a bird taking flight;
Or, what if, the night was touched by a playful wink of moonlight?

Could I perhaps once be free,
Of the magic that lines my fingertips,
That throws dark clouds upon the morning,
The crash of a landslide down the mountain,
And the wail of hurt into the bird's call?

Could I find, if I tried, a story that ends in clasped hands,
And finding little rooms in each other's eyes?

I notice, the blood clock hasn't moved,
The sound of falling droplets drowns the ifs,
And ticks over time;
I wield my weapon,
And skin gives like butter.

You mock formidable locks,
Then throw heavy doors open;
Sunbeams wash in where dark spells swayed,
And somewhere a bird sings,
Were they even real - those tricks wicked whispers played?

You are the soul of endless songs,
You lay traps where clever artists fall;
Dare a third person declare you devious,
You are the very meaning of a good fairy's wand.

You hide from the crowd in plain sight,
While I unravel every little flash and inflection;
I immerse in your language,
And we exchange playground secrets in childly delight;
Yes, I become a child - it's a choice and I trade,
To enter your mystery world with light steps,
The baggage of gathered wisdom I leave behind.

And there, somewhere, while the act plays,
A wise man smiles and he says,
'Such it has always been -
To give yourself to new eyes, you must first turn blind.'

Part 1: Creation

I am painted mood,
Images from his world, considered in quiet recess,
Excesses discarded,
Soft strokes build shades and highlights,
Punctation measured,
Words dance to rhythm;
I become deep feeling,
When parts become a landscape in verse,
And fuse with light and shadow;
And then, I am floated into real space,
I show, I don't say,
The artist stays silent,
Faceless behind a still curtain.

Part 2: Creator

Who says words are to speak?
Words are wooden puppets,
They are only alive when I dance them to a tune;
They are the outlines of things,
They mean, only when I pour color;
Do you hear the music?
Do your eyes appreciate?
That's all,
I tell nothing - don't wait,
I won't draw the curtain.

And it is only a curtain,
Curious hands will find you a way in,
It is a little dark - evening turning into night,
But here, words speak;
We could talk the night through,
And if we walk long enough,
A hint of morning light might break;
I don't know,
I haven't walked that far for long,
It's too far to walk without conversation.

She's the silver that turns empty darkness into night;
The pitch black where lies in wait,
The menace that creeps in after illusions break,
What shimmers in and shields you from this insidious snake,
She's that magic light;
Soul cracked like dry earth, spark as alive as a naked tree,
She sings her silver song,
And breathes life, where dawn is a dead romantic's dream.

My hands ***** on cold stone, it's so dark here there is no sight,
And still, restless search fatigues blind eyes,
They dart about for a trace of shining white;
They dart about, only till realization strikes,
And then a smile breaks and I gently close my eyes.

The hands feeling the cold stone wall guide my feet not forward nor back;
The audacity of hope was just hell's little joke,
I have been walking around in a circular trap;
A parched laughter I hear in an alien voice,
Why then does it throb in my vocal chords?
The laugh's on my misguided blind eyes - inside a narrow black well, imagining steps forward, searching for her distant light.

When did I fall into this dark spell?
My memory dwindles - it's as feeble as once sunlit eyes,
And yet, in a deep corner somewhere, there is one that abides:
She's magic silver,
She turns empty darkness into a starlit night.

Drowned in the shaft, no sound stirs, and I look up,
Could I perhaps find if I tried, the opening that would gift a little glimpse of the sky?
I strain but it's the same all around,
The dense heavy black bears down.

It's out there as lies within,
The poison that fell like a drop on the rainbow sky;
It spread in black veins, slashing cuts, swallowing the red,
Dripping toxic death, I watched all the colors die;
The last I saw was a black rainbow, like a scythe against the dark sky.

And ever since then, blind eyes crawl the shadowed night,
Seeking just a touch of her silver light;
And whenever thought stirs and I picture again,
The death of the rainbow in patient detail,
I feel a surge inside, and lips part in secret delight.

And now I know why I find myself between these walls in this chamber of hell,
I did not fall - I found it and I jumped;
It was too late now - lethal this poison must never touch her pure eyes, or drip upon her liquid light.

Here she will not find me,
Here I will know in that insulated corner inside,
Somewhere she shines,
She once turned an empty darkness into a silver night.

Softly,
Dusk pulls its cloak
Reality bends to twilight
A silver door opens,
And there I see -
She is as snow by its light;

A gentle ice breeze
Blows stardust upon fireflies
This sorcery of sparks and spaces
I see unravel in her eyes;

But then,
My curse is a prison
The winter will pass
Fireflies will fall upon the grass
And yesterday, with bleeding footsteps
Will come for me again.